Never Knew
by Aksannyi
Summary: Some time has passed since Eli David's passing in a shootout in DC, and his estate has finally been settled, leaving Ziva to pick up the pieces of what has been left behind. This piece is strictly Ziva-centric. Oneshot. Based off of "The Greatest Man I Never Knew."


**Present day Ziva-centric oneshot. Eli David's estate has finally been settled, leaving Ziva to return to their summer home to tie up the remains of what her father left behind. This can be read as inclusive of Past, Present, Future, or not. There are no spoilers beyond Season 10.**

 **Assume that all spoken language is Hebrew.**

 **Lyrics are Reba McEntire's "The Greatest Man I Never Knew," and they obviously do not belong to me.**

* * *

 _The greatest man I never knew  
Lived just down the hall  
And every day we said hello  
But never touched at all  
He was in his paper  
I was in my room  
How was I to know he thought I hung the moon?_

* * *

The house smelled musty after having sat vacant for so long, as though the entire building had become someone's attic full of artifacts and mementos, dust lining the tops of everything it could settle upon.

Her father's estate, which included the summer home they'd vacation to when they needed to get away from the apartment in the city all those years ago, now belonged fully to her, his affairs finally having been settled after his death what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Slowly, Ziva walked down the hallway, memories of childhood summers spent running up and down these corridors chasing after Tali, laughter echoing off the walls. The ghosts of her past seemed to swirl around her, an old, familiar yet painful memory of days gone by, gone too soon. When she opened her eyes, she stood before her father's old office.

A stiff, almost utilitarian room she'd never been particularly fond of, with dark gray walls and a huge, sturdy desk, it was the essence of her father – all business, very little emotion. She could almost see him sitting at the desk, staring down at some papers as she waited for his attention, the dutiful daughter who, even as a child, knew that her father's work would always take precedence, but never stopped trying.

"Hello, papa," she would say, her small voice carrying over to where he sat, absorbed in his paperwork. He would look up – only briefly – and narrow his eyes at her before looking back down at his work.

"Ziva, my daughter," he would reply less as an acknowledgement and more as a dismissal and she would walk away, disappointed, almost daily, that her father hardly noticed her existence. It did not matter if she'd come bearing a high grade on a particularly difficult test, or wearing one of her ballet costumes for the upcoming recital, or even if she had brought Tali with her to sing him a song. It was always the same. He would seem to notice her, but not really at all, and she couldn't seem to shake her inability to please him, to make Eli David notice his eldest daughter.

From a young age, she'd sworn that she would do whatever it took to make him notice her, and so she'd joined Mossad, rising swiftly through the ranks.

And when she stood in front of him in his office at Mossad, it was not as "Ziva, my daughter," but as "Officer David, employee."

He still, technically, did not notice _her,_ the daughter who had tried only to get his attention as he sat at that imposing desk that kept them separated. Always apart, never family.

She stepped forward and into the office, unable to quite shake the feeling of her father's watchful eyes upon her, running her hands along the thin trail of dust on the bookshelf as she walked toward his desk, standing before it as she had so many times before, wondering what it was about this desk that had always made her feel so inadequate.

"It was not the desk that is so imposing," she murmured to the quiet room, feeling guilty for having disturbed the sanctity of Eli's silent space. She walked softly to the other side of the desk, _his_ desk, the area she dared not cross as a child. Even now, she felt his eyes upon her, stern and accusatory. She'd never crossed to this side of the room, not once. Her fingers traced the edge of the desk as she walked around it to the chair.

She dared not sit down. Even with her father gone, his presence was too heavy still in this room. It unnerved her. He'd been dead over two years now and yet, he was still here.

Taking a deep sigh, Ziva reached for the handle of the top drawer. She would need to get it over with eventually, and despite the uneasy feeling that her father still stood watch over her every move, she needed to go through these things. The drawer opened with ease despite its lack of recent use, and a small, bound book sat inside.

She picked the book up and opened the front cover, noting with a gasp that it was a photo album, and that the pictures on the first page were of her. Flipping through the album, she noted all of the photos were of her, each one labeled in her father's messy hand. "Ziva, princess," read one caption, another, "Prima Ballerina Zivaleh."

A teardrop hit the open page before Ziva even recognized the tears welling up in her eyes. All these years, he'd kept these photographs close to him, not locked away, but from the looks of the worn pages, thumbed through regularly. She wiped another tear from her eye as she kept turning the pages of the book, noting that the photographs grew more recent as she progressed through it.

The final photograph, about two-thirds of the way through the book, was about six or seven years old. She was standing in the doorway of her apartment, greeting Tony as he'd come over for another late-night rendezvous. The note below the photo read, "Ziva with the American, DiNozzo. She looks happy." A sob echoed through the silent room at the words, at the realization that he had not only cared about her, but that he'd been collecting these happy moments of her life and celebrating them. She _had_ been happy then.

Why had she never known this about her father? He had always been so dismissive of her, of everything. Yet here he had been keeping a collection of her finest moments, as though he'd always been proud of her, yet unable to show it. "Why did you not tell me?" She choked out, both angry and sad that he'd kept his pride from her. "I did everything to please you, and all this time, you never let on that you were _pleased_ with who I had become."

Forgetting her apprehension, she settled down in the chair behind the desk, tears streaming down her face, and spoke just one final word.

"Why?"

* * *

 _The greatest man I never knew  
Came home late every night  
He never had too much to say  
Too much was on his mind  
I never really knew him  
And now it seems so sad  
Everything he gave to us took all he had_

* * *

Ziva continued through the desk, the photo album left open on the corner. She kept stealing glances at it through the corner of her eyes as she thumbed through the paperwork in his files.

Many of the papers were bank or financial statements, some yellowed with age or stained by an errant drop of coffee, or perhaps tea. Most of these papers were old enough that they could be shredded, but Ziva wanted to go through them to ensure that nothing recent was nestled in among the old. Anything that might require her attention, seeing as she was now responsible for handling any and all bills that were tied to his estate. She would have to decide later if she wished to keep the house, but for now, she would take care of its maintenance.

She pulled out another file folder, one without a label, and opened it, her eyes settling on the first sheet of paper, marked with the letterhead from Soroka Medical Center, a hospital not far from their home in Be'er Sheva, and others from Rabin Medical Center in Tel Aviv. Quickly, she began to thumb through the sheets to note that they were all medical bills – Eli's medical bills.

If he'd been ill, Ziva had had no knowledge of it, but then, her father was very much a private person. He would have likely said he wouldn't want to burden her with the truth, but the fact was, if he had been ill, he would not want to appear weak before her.

The bills gave no indication as to what type of illness he may have had, or if he had one at all. Perhaps these were routine check-ups of some sort. Her eyes caught sight of the word "surgery" and she wondered just when her father had had an operation? She found that there were several medical billing documents per month, mostly outpatient treatments, and what looked like prescription drugs.

"What were you hiding, papa?" She asked the room, and was greeted only with the eerie silence of the office that once belonged to her father. Had some illness been the real reason for his retirement? His inability to stay away from work for long had been one of the main reasons for the tensions between Eli and his mother, aside from his affair with Orli, and others, Ziva suspected. Eli had been a workaholic, and when he'd told her that he was planning to retire, she had scarcely believed it. She had been certain he would work until he died, and that he would be at his desk in his office at Mossad when he drew his last breath.

Retirement was never something Ziva had imagined for her father, but perhaps it was not his choice. "It is starting to make sense," she murmured, chewing absentmindedly on a pen she'd picked up.

He had never been home. "Working late," had always been his excuse, one that neither Rivka nor Ziva had bought into. Ari hadn't particularly cared, and Tali had been younger, and more forgiving in her naivety, but Ziva had known. He'd had other interests outside their home. Not for the first time, she wondered if he had fathered any other children by another woman, and not just Ari.

She closed her eyes for a moment and heard her mother's voice in her ears, loud and accusatory, as Eli had come home late, the food she'd prepared long cold and sitting in the fridge. Ziva would sit quietly in her room, the door cracked open ever-so-slightly, listening to her father make excuses for not making her ballet recitals, her piano concerts, her school functions, and even her first karate demonstration, something she'd thought he'd _surely_ be interested in, considering his line of work. It had always been the same argument, and it had always been the same excuse. "I just couldn't get away. Forgive me, my wife, I will not miss the next one."

He had _always_ missed the next one. "You will tell her I am sorry," he would say to Rivka, more of a statement than a question. Ziva would sit in her room, wondering why her father could not come apologize to _her,_ why he was so determined to avoid showing her that he cared about her in the slightest.

She would greet him if she saw him – which was not very often, now that she thought about it – but he would never show her any affection, any indication that he cared for her, that he loved her. She would watch other girls at their dance recitals hugging their fathers, and she would stand stoically beside her mother, wishing she could have that relationship with _her_ father while simultaneously concentrating on being stone-faced. She would not cry, not over him. Even now, she could hear his voice saying, _"Be brave, Ziva."_

Meanwhile, he had been working himself literally to death, from the looks of these medical papers, some of which dated back to her youth. Had he been dying? Had he been afraid to confront his family in the face of his mortality? Had he thought that he could not be a father if it was known that he would eventually die?

Seventeen years she had lived under her father's roof, another ten years under his employ, and she'd never known him at all. Eli had been her only remaining immediate family member when he died, and he had shut her out entirely. Had her mother known him? Had anyone?

Tears welled into her eyes anew at the thought. What a cruel tragedy, that he could be such a stranger to her but at the same time, judging from the photo album sitting open on his desk, care so deeply for her. A man who had sent her on a mission that almost resulted in her death could somehow care fiercely enough for her that he'd regularly look through photos of her childhood and early adulthood … _who was this man?_ Had he looked through the photographs after she'd gone to Somalia? Did he regret anything then as he claimed to before he passed?

Who was Eli David?

* * *

 _Then the days turned into years  
And the memories to black and white  
He grew cold like an old winter wind  
Blowing across my life…_

* * *

She had to take a break from this, or she would go crazy trying to figure out what it was that made her father tick. Backing away from the desk upon which Eli's papers were strewn, Ziva again caught sight of the photo album, deciding to pick it up and take it with her back to her hotel room across town. She could live here if she wanted to, after all, it belonged to her now, but the memories… She shook her head at the thought. Too much, too painful.

She locked the door to the house, carrying the album under her arm as she headed to her car, and then sat down in the driver's seat, setting the book down beside her. She reached to turn the key in the ignition but the album caught the corner of her eye, and she felt compelled to look through it another time.

"When I get home," she said to the book, as though she were talking to Eli himself. His presence seemed all over everything he had touched, the house especially feeling as though it were haunted.

She turned the key and put her car into gear, backing quickly out of the driveway she'd parked in, the wind from the window blowing her hair around her face. Few things made her feel more alive, more _free,_ than driving with the windows down in the early fall heat.

Her foot pressed down on the gas pedal and the car responded by jumping in speed, and the wind blew the pages of the photo album open, settling on the back cover, which was several pages after the last photograph had been placed. A red light signaled her to stop, and she looked over at the back over, where an inscription was written in her father's hand.

 _Ziva,  
I may not be that good at words or emotions, and I know that I have taught you much the same. But please know that I am proud of you, of what you have become. You have made your own life, and I would only hope that someday, you would forgive an old, foolish man, and share in what remains of mine. I do not believe I have ever said it out loud, but I love you, my Ziva. _

Tears were running down her face as the light turned to green and she sped forward, her father's words ringing in her mind. Had he planned to give her this photo album before he'd passed? She knew that he had tried to make amends when he had come to the States, but he hadn't shown her that he had changed. " _This_ would have shown me, papa, that you had changed!" she shouted, her words lost in the wind whipping through her hair as she sped forward, choking on heavy sobs not at all unlike the tears she'd cried when she found her father's body in Leon Vance's house.

* * *

 _The greatest words I never heard  
I guess I'll never hear  
The man I thought would never die  
Has been dead almost a year  
He was good at business  
But there was business left to do  
He never said he loved me  
Guess he thought I knew_

* * *

Ziva found herself at the cemetery where her father's body lay, walking slowly to the monument bearing his name, the photo album clutched tightly in her hand. She hadn't meant to come here, but she needed to talk to her father, _really_ talk to him, not the way she had when she'd come to grieve his loss two years ago.

She sat down on the grass, facing his grave, opening the book in front of her. "Hello, papa," she began, her voice soft against the breeze rustling through the nearby trees. She was pleased to see that the olive tree she had planted near his grave was flourishing. She'd had to pull a few strings with the caretaker to get permission to plant it, but it had been so symbolic, then and even now. It suited him.

"I thought I had mourned you two years ago, right after your passing, but I suppose this is the first time since that I wished I could talk to you." She paused, drawing in a slow breath, and pointed to the photo album. "I wish you were here to explain this. How you collected these mementos of my life, of my past. How you obviously looked at my photographs often, and with seemingly a lot of affection.

"How could you have not shown me this? Had you hoped that I would be able to forgive you without hearing you tell me that you loved me? Did you not see that it was not good enough, the steps you tried to take to absolve your sins, not without ever having told me how important I had been to you?"

She sighed, running her fingers through her hair and tucking it behind her ear. "All these memories, papa. They were good memories, you know. All of the dance recitals, playing dress-up with Tali, my karate classes, the science fairs. The first piano recital, my induction into the IDF. The first time I won a boxing match against Michael, even my transition into living in America. They are good memories, but they could have been better, had you shared in them with me, papa." Tears streamed down her face as she turned the pages through the photo album, noting each happy memory as it passed.

"I wish I could ask you why. I wish I could hope to understand. Why you worked so much, why you were not there for me. Why I always felt like I had to follow in your footsteps just to make you proud. Only to find that–" she sniffled, her eyes darting to the names on his grave, Eli and Rivka David, _may they rest in peace._ "That all I had to do to make you proud was be myself.

"Why didn't you tell me, papa?" She asked, her voice sounding weak and youthful, and in that moment, she felt as though she were only five years old again; that little girl standing before her father's desk, heartbroken by her father's easy dismissal.

"Well I just want to say … I love you, too, papa," she started, sniffling again. Hoping to keep any semblance of composure had been a losing battle from the start. Crying in front of Eli had always made her feel weak and insignificant, but this time, the tears were her strength. Confronting him, even like this, would bring her some sense of closure that traveling to his funeral two years ago had not provided. "I wish you had told me you loved me. I guess you thought that I knew, but I never knew, papa."

She closed the album and stood up, reaching to touch the stone, her fingers running softly over the letters of his name. "I never knew," she repeated, her voice a whisper along the winds of the empty cemetery, her hair billowing in and around her face as the tears streamed silently down her face at the realization of all in life that she'd lost.

 **Fin.**

* * *

 **I want to thank all of my readers for your support, especially considering how slow I am to write and publish things. I want you all to know that I have several longer fics in the works, but I don't publish until entire pieces are complete. So I hope that this introspective one-shot was enough for now.**

 **Much love to all of you who take the time to read and leave me a review.**


End file.
